Dear editor,

It has been for a good while that I have been willing to share my thoughts on the vexing subject of fashion, but after watching the outrageous programme Dressed to Kill I finally made up my mind to put pen to paper and write to you.

The esteemed reader might already have guessed that the abovementioned show is aimed at inexperienced gullible women, those who remain under illusion that they will never go places in life unless they are invariably dressed to the nines. However thin it might sound, surprisingly, a good many females fall for this idea and are raring to splash out a fortune on designer labels. In most fortunate cases, they achieve nothing else apart from boosting their ego. In the others, they end up feeling trapped and emotionally drained eaten by the insatiable need to obtain yet another fancy-shmancy outfit so as to outshine their imaginary rivals in the fashion world. Yet, however hard one might try to look all the rage, with the wheels of fashion moving inexorably, they are bound to be left behind.

Should one take a rest from the neck-breaking race and ask oneself: What is the point of fashion? Is it not about hard-nosed businessmen allied with cunning designers with the only aim to filling their own pockets? The answer is one hundred percent positive. From the times immemorial people’s craving for admiration has been shamelessly exploited, and now with the media throwing oil on the fire, style setters lure young girls into joining the vanity fair hands down.

One might argue that we still judge the book by its cover, which means that we should look sharp at all times. There is, however, a vast difference between looking elegant let alone appropriate for a certain occasion and going to great lengths to make a fashion statement. The effort and the money spent to achieve the latter could be more profitably spent on something worthwhile.

Alas, I do not flatter myself with the hope that my voice crying out in the wilderness will ever be heard. After all, the whole industry of fashion is built on illusion, and what else do we foster with the most tenderness?

Sincerely yours,

Mr. Scruffy